


etched in lines and shading

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (for jon), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Conversations, First Meetings, M/M, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), Tattoo Artist Gerry, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Gerry doesn’t make a habit of socializing with his clients. He does the tattoo, his client usually talks with whoever accompanied them to the shop, and they go their separate ways after a few hours.Jon is different.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 78
Collections: TMA Gerry Week 2021





	etched in lines and shading

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 1 of gerry week for the prompt: ink!
> 
> cw for typical tattoo procedures, including a brief mention of needles

When Gerry steps into the tattoo parlor five minutes before noon, he’s greeted by the lingering scent of ink, the tinny sound of punk rock trickling out of the speakers, and a man sat on one of the run-down armchairs. His hair is twisted up into a bun, revealing a sharp undercut beneath and a selection of ring piercings along the shell of his left ear, and the selection of pins and buttons on his jacket rivals those on Gerry’s own. When the bell above the door jingles, the man’s attention snaps to him, and he makes a little motion as if to stand but settles back again, his fingers finding a small black ring on the middle finger of his right hand and beginning to twist it back and forth in what seems to be a nervous gesture.

_First time, then._

“You must be my noon appointment,” Gerry says, shucking off his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall near the door. He slips behind the counter, giving Rosie a brief greeting as he does so, and peers over her shoulder at the appointment book. “Jonathan?”

“Just- just Jon is fine,” Jon says. This time, he does stand, making his way over to the counter. He’s still twisting his ring. “You must be Gerard.”

And Gerry doesn’t know why he says, with a hint of a smile, “Just Gerry is fine.” But he does. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rosie raise an eyebrow, but she says nothing—just types something out on her computer. 

“Right,” Jon says. His hand falls away from his ring and lands at his side. “I- I suppose you already know what kind of design I’m looking to get?”

Gerry makes an affirmative noise. “A… lotus, yeah? Black and white, simple shading, some leaf detailing around the bottom. Just like the photo you sent?” 

“Something like that,” Jon says. “I- I’d like you to make your own design of it though, if that’s all right. I’ve seen your previous work—it’s one of the reasons I chose you. Your floral work is- is just _stunning._ ”

The way Jon’s face softens when he says _stunning_ makes Gerry’s heartbeat quicken ever so slightly. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, because otherwise he’s going to say something silly like _flatterer_ or _you’re not so bad yourself_ or any other of the dozen _way_ too familiar things running through his mind at the moment. He shakes it off and says, “I’m going to go draw up the design. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes? You’re free to pop into the coffee shop next door if you’d like.”

“Oh.” Jon sounds a little surprised, almost like he’d expected Gerry to just usher him back and freehand the tattoo. (Which is a _terrifying_ thought.) “R- right. Thank you.”

Gerry gives Jon what he hopes is a reassuring smile and heads to the back of the shop where his inks and transfer papers are. Just before he leaves the lobby area, he sees Jon sit back down in the armchair, his hand returning to his ring.

_It’s a bit endearing, isn’t it?_

Gerry sits at his drawing table, pushes _that_ unhelpful thought out of his mind, and begins sketching.

He runs the design past Jon a few times, making tweaks when necessary, and it’s hardly any time at all before he’s got Jon standing in front of the mirror, his shirt pulled off and out of the way as Gerry gently presses the transfer paper to the back of Jon’s shoulder before peeling it away just as carefully. Christ, Jon’s so _bony._ Shoulder tattoos typically aren’t too bad, just a few winces here or there, but there’s so little padding between Jon’s skin and the bone underneath. Still, it’s not Gerry’s business to lecture clients about tattoo pain, so he instead has Jon stand and check the tattoo placement in the mirror.

Jon stares at it, his eyes tracing along the lines that Gerry’s put there. After a few moments, he seems to remember that he’s supposed to be confirming the placement and stutters out a quick, “Yes, that- that looks acceptable.”

_Acceptable._ Gerry stifles a chuckle and says, “All right, then. Go ahead and sit? I’ll be working on your back, so just put your legs through the gaps at the bottom and press your stomach to the seatback.”

That nervous look is back in Jon’s eyes, but he does what Gerry asks, positioning himself in the tattoo chair as instructed. His chin slots just above the headrest, but his feet dangle a few inches above the ground. This time, Gerry can’t quite hold in his chuckle. “Do you need footrests?”

Jon makes a disgruntled noise, the corners of his mouth tilting down into an expression Gerry could only describe as a _pout._ “I’ll manage,” he says shortly, like a cat with its hackles raised.

Somehow, Gerry finds it quite charming.

Gerry gets his inks in order—just black, easy enough, with a few extra bottles on standby—and wheels his chair over. He sees Jon’s eyes flick to the tattoo gun briefly before focusing rather intently on the wall in front of him, like the 1960s advert Gerry’s got pinned up there requires his utmost attention. 

Gerry’s never been the most _soothing_ tattoo artist. Often, his clients will bring someone else with them and he doesn’t have to say anything at all. He can just focus on getting the lines and shading right while his client talks about television or the news or cooking or, on one memorable occasion, their long, _long_ list of kinks with whatever patient friend is willing to sit through a two-hour-long tattoo session. Still, Gerry finds himself saying, quietly, “If you need me to stop, just say so, okay? Sometimes people need a break, especially after the first hour or so.”

Jon just nods mutely. Gerry places his hand on Jon’s back, says, “Keep still,” and turns on the tattoo gun.

Jon doesn’t even wince when it hits his skin, just lets out a little exhalation, like he’d been holding his breath. Gerry works for the first ten minutes or so in silence, only the whir of the gun to keep him company. Then, a bit awkwardly, Jon says, “So, er. How long have you been doing tattoos?”

Gerry traces a careful line across the upper curve of Jon’s shoulder and says, “About two years now? I had a few odd jobs after uni—visual art degrees can be a _bit_ unreliable—” He punctuates his words with a laugh. “—but I’ve always been one for tattoos, you know? Got quite a few of them in uni—the eyes on my joints, some of the bits on my arms and back, all black ink—and so I started applying to apprenticeships. Got certified, got licensed, and now here I am.” Gerry can’t shrug, so he makes a similar noise with his mouth and adjusts the position of his hand on Jon’s back.

Jon hums but doesn’t say anything else. When it becomes clear that he’s not planning on doing so, Gerry worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before saying, “Er, what about you? What’s your day job?”

“Hm?” Jon shifts slightly, as if to turn to face Gerry, then thinks better of it and settles back down. “Oh, I’m- I’m still in university. I’m, er. I’m currently working towards a master’s in English literature. I’m considering several academic institutions once I graduate, all privately funded—small, more specialized collections.”

Gerry lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Smarter than me, then.”

Jon makes a noise at that, and this time he does turn his head, only slightly, so that Gerry has to bear the full weight of his disapproving look. “More classically educated, perhaps. But I certainly wouldn’t be able to create _permanent art_ on somebody else’s body.”

Gerry flushes, ever so slightly, even though Jon’s really done nothing but just outlined his basic job description. “Good to see that you have faith in me,” he says, tilting his wrist and inching toward the more sensitive area near Jon’s armpit. 

The hiss Jon gives at that covers whatever he’d been about to say, and what comes out instead is, “ _Ahh,_ that stings a bit.”

“Sorry,” Gerry says, and he finds that he actually means it. “The skin’s more tender there, so when I work on that area, it’ll hurt more. Again, let me know if you need me to stop.”

“I’ll be- I’ll be fine,” Jon says, his voice only hitching a little as Gerry passes over the area again. Then, more hesitantly, he says, “Just. It might help if you keep talking to me? Just to, er. Keep my mind off it.”

“Yeah, of course,” Gerry says, casually, like it’s not the first time he’s ever actually, _truly_ wanted to have a conversation with one of his clients. “What do you want to talk about?”

Over the next hour and a half, Jon tells him about his classes and the tea shops he frequents and his favorite restaurants in Oxford. He tells Gerry about the disastrous trip to Scotland he took after his first year of uni and the theatre trope he’d been a part of for a year and the visitation rights he has with his ex-girlfriend’s cat. (And if Gerry is relieved at the word _ex,_ he doesn’t let on.) He skirts over his childhood, lingers on his early uni years, and paints with lovely inks a picture of his life that rivals those Gerry’s made a living etching onto people’s skin

And Gerry tells Jon in kind about the coffee he likes and his first tattoo and the little green space next to his flat that he can see from his window. He tells Jon about a life spent chasing after rare books for his mother and fingers stained with paints since he was ten and a father that he can’t quite remember. He lingers on a childhood he isn’t fond of, skims over his uni years, and puts a little bit of himself into every stroke of ink on Jon’s skin.

He’d always thought that was a shitty metaphor, putting a bit of yourself into your art. But he thinks he gets it now.

It’s not long at all before Gerry’s pulling back the tattoo gun and wiping the cloth along Jon’s shoulder one last time before surveying his work with satisfaction (and a bit of something else under the surface that he _refuses_ to label as affection). “All done,” he says, letting his hand linger on the small of Jon’s back for a moment before rolling his chair back and giving Jon enough space to sit up.

“That’s it?” Jon says, like Gerry hasn’t spent just shy of two hours injecting ink into Jon’s shoulder with a tiny needle. “Ah. That was… not as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Usually isn’t,” Gerry says with a shrug, setting his tattoo gun to one side and stripping off his gloves. “Especially the shoulder—that’s one of the more painless places.”

“Well,” Jon says dryly, “I wouldn’t say _painless._ ”

“Ha ha.” Gerry begins to tidy some things on his workstation and says, quieter, “It helps when you have someone to talk to. Uh, keeps your mind off the pain. People sometimes bring a friend along, someone to keep them company.”

It’s not phrased as a question, but it feels like one. And when Jon stares at his hands where they’re pressed against the back of the chair and says, “I… you were, er. You were quite sufficient in that regard,” Gerry takes it for the compliment it is.

Instead of responding (and, probably, saying something ridiculous like _we could talk more, if you’d like_ ), Gerry nods his head at the mirror. “Go on. Take a look. Let me know if you want the lines darker or some more detailing or anything.”

Jon looks like he wants to say something else from the way that his mouth opens slightly and his fingers curl against the smooth leather. Instead, he just nods before maneuvering himself off the chair and standing in front of the mirror, angling his torso slightly so he can see the ink that now covers the greater portion of his shoulderblade.

The lotus is in full bloom, the core of the flower on full display. Gerry’s done a bit of delicate shading along the length of the petals, darker shading where the petals meet in the center (during which Jon’s speech had become punctuated by little noises of discomfort). There are a few lines branching off into thin leaves, the lines thinner than the heavy ones Gerry used for the main flower. 

It would look rather beautiful colored, Gerry thinks. Jon would look stunning in purple.

“Do you like it?” Gerry says, pushing the thought away (and with it the slight bit of guilt at his unprofessionalism). “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Jon’s still staring at himself in the mirror. He’s looking at his shoulder like it’s a work of art, and- and well, it _is_ , it’s just that people don’t normally do that. They get excited, yeah, or awed, telling him that it looks great with big smiles on their faces. On one memorable occasion, a woman actually cried a little bit (which Gerry did _not_ know how to handle).

This is different. This is the way you’d look at a Monet, or a Picasso, or any of the other works of art Gerry had studied in uni. Things that belonged in museums or private collections. Things worth millions of dollars, if you could put a price on them at all, that people would travel across entire bodies of water to witness first-hand.

Jon looks at the lotus like Gerry’s just inked the Mona Lisa onto his skin. And Gerry’s quite unequipped to handle the rush of affection that comes over him at the sight.

_Professionalism’s just gone out the window, then._

Jon’s voice is quiet, so quiet, when he says, “Yes, I- I think I quite like it.” His eyes when they find Gerry are soft and brown, so, _so_ brown, darker than that of his skin and, for a brief moment, filled with a vulnerability that cuts right down to Gerry’s heart where it’s stuttering in his chest. Then, like a switch being flipped, Jon’s expression slips back into something more neutral. “Right, well. I suppose that’s it, then.”

“Ah. Not quite.”

Gerry’s never been so happy to have to do the brief tattoo aftercare process. He slips on a clean pair of nitrile gloves before carefully applying a layer of thick unscented lotion to Jon’s shoulder, lingering perhaps a bit longer than necessary before pressing a large bandage over the area and securing it with medical tape. He gives his standard tattoo aftercare rundown on autopilot, and before he knows it, Jon is slipping his shirt carefully back on and they’re walking to the front of the shop again. 

While Jon works out payment details with Rosie, Gerry lingers, shifting back and forth restlessly near the door to the back room. Normally, he’d leave the client to Rosie and go prep for the next one, trusting her to take care of the monetary side of things that he’s never quite understood. They’d leave, and he’d get paid, and that would be that. 

Normally, he’d be gone by now. But still, he lingers.

After a minute or two, Rosie gives Jon a cheery, “You’re all set, then! Have a wonderful afternoon.” And that _really_ should be Gerry’s cue to leave, but instead, he stands and watches as Jon folds the papers he’s been given into the pocket of his leather jacket, a reluctance to let Jon just walk out the door again weighing at him and keeping him rooted in place.

And then Jon turns to him, his hands fluttering at the edges of his jacket for a moment before one finds the ring on his right hand and begins to twist it, and he says haltingly, “Well. I suppose, er. Thank you again. For the tattoo and for the- the company.”

_All in a day’s work,_ Gerry means to say. _Just doing my job. Always nice to see a satisfied customer. Feel free to stop by again anytime—we’d be happy to have your business._

Instead, he says, “I get off at nine.” And _immediately_ wants to kick himself. Still, the words are out there in the open, and so he has to live with them. Has to live with the shocked look on Jon’s face, the little ‘o’ shape of his mouth, and the way the twisting of his ring pauses for a moment before resuming with increased vigor.

“I’m sorry?” Jon says, his voice a touch higher than before. Gerry can feel Rosie’s eyes on him, her curiosity palpable. He steadfastly ignores her.

_Fuck it._ “I get off at nine,” Gerry repeats. “If you’re up for more company.”

Shock turns to understanding turns to the briefest flash of disbelief before Jon’s mouth settles into a small, hesitant smile, like he’s not quite sure if he wants to keep it hidden or not. “Ah. Well, I do have a _very_ busy schedule,” Jon says, the seriousness in his voice laid on just thick enough to be facetious. “But I think I could make time for some company _._ If you’re amenable to Indian food, of course.”

_Amenable._ Gerry snorts and says, fondly, “Yeah, that sounds great.” He hesitates only a moment before taking a business card off the counter, flipping it over, and scrawling his personal number across the back. Which is _highly_ unprofessional, but honestly, who the fuck cares at this point? He pinches it between his index and middle finger and extends it toward Jon. “That’s my number. Text me the place? I’ll meet you there.”

Jon takes the card, and Gerry _swears_ Jon lets their fingers brush on purpose. “Will do,” he says, a bit stiffly, like he’s just completed a business transaction. Gerry finds it hopelessly endearing. There’s a moment’s pause; just as it’s bordering on the short side of awkward, Jon nods once and says, “Well. I suppose I’ll see you then.”

He gives Gerry a small smile and then leaves, the bell above the door jingling as he does so.

Rosie clears her throat.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Gerry says, giving Rosie a flat look and steadfastly ignoring the obvious curiosity written all over her face. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Rosie says, the picture of innocence.

“Uh huh.”

Gerry’s about to head to the back to get ready for his next client when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out, and when he looks at the screen, he can’t help the small, clipped laugh that escapes him.

_— Hello, Gerry. This is Jon. I just wanted to ensure that you had my number as well._

Gerry slips his phone back into his pocket, fighting to contain the smile that wants to consume him, and goes to prepare for his next client.

**Author's Note:**

> jon's tattoo is [here](https://i.imgur.com/M7K3S6y.jpg) but significantly better drawn because gerry is a much better artist than me haha
> 
> jon’s tattoo experiences are based on my own (including tattoo location)!
> 
> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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